


At World's End

by catsmiaow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Gen, Graphic Description, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 02:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17417435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsmiaow/pseuds/catsmiaow
Summary: He was Mycroft Holmes.  He could do anything.  He always had.  Even now with all that he loved depending on him, he would find a way.





	At World's End

Mycroft Holmes was many things. Brother of Sherlock Holmes, a minor government official, and sometimes the British government itself if one listened to backroom whispers. There were few things he couldn't do once he put his mind to it. Along those same lines, there were few things he _wouldn't_ do once he put that formidable mind to the task at hand. Including his current one.

Four large steaks were carefully selected from one of the deep freezers that partially filled the armoured garage. Each steak was easily a meal for two, perhaps three if Mycroft were dieting that week. Laying them on a cookie sheet, Mycroft locked each freezer he had opened, dropping the keys back into his pocket. A chain ran from them as a secondary measure, fastening them to his waistcoat. The door to the garage automatically locked after him. To reopen it, one would need not only a key but a retinal scan. A secure home was a happy one these days. The others didn't think about it, so he did. Mycroft always had.

He passed through his living room and dining room without much thought or even a glance at the priceless works of art that decorated the dark wood walls. Few people could walk past some of England's greatest paintings and not even pause. Of course, now their value was probably worth less than the meat he carried before him. One couldn't eat priceless works of art. The same could be said of the table set with fine crystal, china and silver. Even the linen tablecloth could have graced the Queen's table. Mycroft had suggested the same maker to the Master of the Household’s Office. Later, when the others were feeling better, he would have to evict the spiders that were spinning delicate webs among the flatware and clean the thin layer of dust away. He just hadn't been able to keep up with the housework by himself. They needed so much of his time, and he was happy to give it. Even to Sherlock who had refused it before so many times. Now, he no longer did.

Strange how the world had turned upside down. Being methodical had served Mycroft well in the past, and when he had seen the first signs in Canada ( _Canada of all places!_ ) he had begun preparing. By the time the Apocalypse had started to consume England, he had been ready to take those he loved away from it all. Seven restaurant sized freezers filled the garage with barrels of petrol taking up what space those didn't. A single 'experimental' generator kept all of that running along with the house itself although Mycroft rarely needed more than candlelight shielded carefully behind thick curtains from anyone seeing it from the outside. Not that there was anyone to see it. This house had been chosen for its location, sitting on an island fifteen or so kilometres off the Welsh coast that the Holmes family had taken pains to make sure didn't appear on any maps. Most importantly, there were no cemeteries on the island. Or docks now. Mycroft had quietly destroyed the only one after their arrival. The cliffs took care of anyone else trying to make a landing. 

It was better to be safe than sorry though, Mycroft reasoned. He has his loved ones to think of. He had to be fully prepared for anything and everything, factor in every instance he could.

A quiet tune was hummed under his breath as Mycroft unlocked yet another door and started down the stairs. The air grew damper and cooler down here, more what his dear ones liked than the warmth present upstairs. Discomfort wasn't something necessary with the end of the world.

Two more doors opening under his ring of keys, and Mycroft allowed himself a small sigh of relief. They were all going about their usual, no sign of upset at dinner being a few minutes late. Sometimes breaks in their routine did upset them so.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured quietly, not wanting to startle any of them.

Greedy hands snatched the frozen steak Mycroft offered through the bars of the cell with the tongs. Sherlock's dull and glazed eyes stared at his brother as he shoved the meat into his mouth, yellowish-green teeth clunking against it. Had it not been so much a task for one person, Mycroft would have brushed them for his brother. John Watson shuffled up to the bars next, pawing at the steel as if he didn't understand it. A low broken moan came from the doctor's throat as he reached for his steak that Mycroft offered to him. The doctor gnawed on his as well, watching Mycroft through animal stupid eyes that held no memory of wars or bravery, only able to process that he was hungry. John had been the last one he had gathered, the one that had taken the most damage when the dead had started to rise. The emergency rooms had been packed there at the end. Sherlock had at least been able to barricade himself in the labs. At least that's where his brother's shambling corpse had been when Mycroft's strike team had invaded. All the research Sherlock had conducted before his 'change' was piled in one of the other rooms. His violin sat in its case on top of the piled notebooks. In Mycroft's mind, it was 'change', not 'death'. Sherlock wasn't dead after all. None of them were. They were all here.

“Anthea,” Mycroft said politely as he moved to the next cell, offering dinner while keeping back at an arm's length. She was often the one who would limp to the bars, seeming weak and harmless before trying to snatch anything within grasp. He told himself there was intelligence there. It was for that same reason that he left Sherlock and Doctor Watson together in the same cell. Anthea was dangerous. Sherlock and Doctor Watson were content together. 'Normal' undead ignored or bumped past each other without notice. He theorized that some primal vestige of the true 'person' was still in there. 

There had to be. If there weren't, then he had failed and... and... 

He shut off that line of thought. That way laid madness.

Mycroft had left the steaks frozen purposely. Long ago, he had seen a program about an orphan polar bear cub that had been given fruit frozen in ice. It had seemed a little cruel to him to make the bear work for it for so long, but it kept the cub from getting bored, gave it something to do. That tidbit Mycroft had remembered although experimentation found that they couldn't smell meat through ice. Frozen was the best he could do for them. His brother wasn't staring dumbly at the meat, of course. Sherlock was trying to figure out a problem versus being a stupid animal not understanding that it would thaw eventually. 

Mycroft suspected that they would have wanted live instead of dead meat. Should anyone ever come, he supposed he would have the opportunity to test that theory. Waste not, want not and it might be some new mental stimulation for them.

He came to the last room. Cell, really, but 'room' was how he thought of it. Not as nice as the one he had prepared upstairs, but it would do until they were all better. When they were all well again.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, holding this steak in his hand as he offered it through the strong bars between him and his lover.

Cold rough hands brushed Mycroft's before the steak was torn from them. Gregory Lestrade stared blankly at Mycroft as he tried to bite at the frozen meat. Those dark eyes were covered by a bluish film of death as if he had gone blind, but Mycroft knew that Lestrade could see him all too well. Could attack with surprising quickness too. The bite marks on Gregory's hand still had an ugly, raw look to them. How Mycroft would have liked to clean and bandage them, but he'd gotten used to the ichor that sometimes leaked from the wounds. Stained the cement floor something awful though. When they were better, they could all clean it up or just lock up these rooms. Forget about all of this ugliness once it was past.

“How are you feeling, Gregory?” he asked, watching every minute twitch and movement of Lestrade's. 

Mycroft had been ready for anything, plans laid out as soon as he realised what he was seeing in Canada. What he hadn't counted on was the human factor, that they might not drop everything and run when he told them to. Watson had been unwilling to simply leave and dump patients dying of a 'mystery' disease on other doctors. Sherlock hadn't been able to tear himself away of solving the enigma of the disease itself. Anthea, dear Anthea, had been unwilling to leave him. Lestrade had likewise refused to leave the people of London he had sworn to protect.

It had been too late when Mycroft's people had found his Gregory. At least he had 'died' here on the island, holding onto Mycroft's arms. Mycroft Holmes had deleted any memory of Detective Inspector Lestrade begging him to put a bullet into his brain before he died. Mycroft would no more shoot his lover than he would himself. What sort of madness would _that_ have been?

He would find a cure. He would. He was Mycroft Holmes, after all.

Lestrade grunted at him, drawing his mouth off the steak long enough to give Mycroft his stupid-hungry stare before trying to bite into the meat once more. His teeth made an ugly clunking sound.

Mycroft ignored it as easily as he did the stink of dead creatures, rot and madness. The same as he didn't let himself see the bone peeking out from splitting skin on their bodies, the places where dead blood or decomposing tissues leaked out. Or Watson's torn out throat. Or the lumpish look to Sherlock's head where his little brother had placed the gun barrel against his temple when he realized that no one was coming. That his big brother wasn't going to be there as he always had before. Like he should have been. The bullet hadn't gone far enough to destroy the brain matter the disease changed within the skull. Mycroft was absurdly grateful for that. Mummy would have never forgiven him if Sherlock had been killed.

He failed them once before, hadn't gotten to them or out of London fast enough. Mycroft wouldn't do so again. These were his loved ones. He couldn't abandon them. They needed him. Even Sherlock no matter how he might deny it later. 

“I love you,” he whispered to Gregory although he meant it for all of them.

He told himself the glance that Lestrade flicked up to his face was memory or want instead of blatant hunger. Of course they loved him too. Once they were all better-

... once they were ...

Vomit tried to force its way up his throat as he _smelled_ the room, saw the splatters of Greg's long dried blood on his once neat suit, and almost saw what reality was. A swallow, and the sickness went away. Straightening his tie, Mycroft squared his shoulders as he always would when faced with some international catastrophe. It would be solved in the end as always and -

"Everything will be fine then," he finished, setting aside the tray and picking up _'Great Expectations'_ to begin reading to them for the night. Sherlock had loved the story as a small child, and Gregory had never read it before.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited and reposted from my defunct acct.


End file.
